War in Hetropolis
by Heroic Pen
Summary: AU. In a ravaged city once built on the promise of peace, Nations are little more than extremist gangs who claim to fight for the lost glory of their ancestors. Alfred, a National who fights in the name the star-spangled banner, is wounded and only seeking refuge when he stumbles into the quiet home of a civilian named Arthur Kirkland.


_A/N: This was written for Round 2 of the Hetalia fanfic challenge on Deviantart. Every round, writers are eliminated and a new prompt is given. This time around:_

_PROMPT: Looking for a flat in a Metropolis_

_REQUIREMENTS: Oneshot (700 words minimum), AU (no nation personifications allowed)_

* * *

When colored lights fell into the busy streets and an angry darkness crawled its way through the alleys, that was when the Nations came out to play. Night was their realm, because day was made for simple things, and no one could quite explain them.

Wherever they went, they marched to the distorted rhythms of their own respective drums, though only after the sun fell and the steady pedestrian flow had cleared. Their weathered banners curled under the churn of the wind, bearing stripes and designs that belonged to a faraway era—symbols of hatred and separation that had been outlawed a long time ago.

And then, amidst the busy commotion of a city that was built on the promise of peace, they would fight.

Some nights, the streetlights flared like fireworks from the assault of their misfired guns, and their strangled battle cries filled the stale air with a wild sort of music, but then the uproar would vanish as quickly as it had come. Other nights, the innocent tumult of the city gave way entirely to the mayhem of their petty war, and every cluttered street became their stage.

On this night, however, one of them found himself with a bullet hole in his side, very alone and in the dark, gasping a pained breath and opening the door to a humble little flat.

_Please be empty, please be empty, please be empty—_

"Oh no you don't."

A dull crack echoed through the unlit room, and for a moment everything flared white.

"Stay still or I'll break your face, bastard, I swear it."

On his hands and knees, Alfred spat, watching pink saliva drip into the cracks of the hardwood floor. He was seeing red, but he knew it was just from all the blood rushing through his skull—whether from sudden rage, or the fact that he'd just been slammed over the head with a metal bat, it didn't really matter.

What mattered now was the cold, hard voice that throbbed above him. "What do you want?" it spoke like a warning.

_Damnit, I was followed!_ Alfred shook his head in attempt to regain clarity. "Where the fuck did my glasses go…" he muttered frantically to himself, patting at the ground in search for them—

"I said don't move!"

Alfred glared up at his attacker, heart pulsing in uneven waves as he steeled himself to face his enemy. He blinked once, eyes adjusting slowly to the shadows.

And then he blinked again. Just to be sure.

The shadow looming over him was much too small to belong to the leader of the Russian faction, and it was slightly bent, as if guarding itself.

A tick of relief replaced Alfred's anger. He moved to stand, but the back of his head gave a sudden throb and he swallowed a wince. "Did you follow me here? Why was the door unlocked?" he panted. "Where's Ivan? Is this some kind of trap?"

"I'll ask the questions, asshole, you're in _my_ flat."

"You…you don't sound even sound Russian."

"Russian? Of course not! Russians don't exist, unless you're…" The stranger's voice stiffened, tone falling low with undeniable horror. "Dear lord, you're—you're a _National_, aren't you?"

Alfred choked down a retort. _Well, fuck. You screwed up, Alfred, you really screwed up big time; this bastard's a civilian_. "Uh, listen, there's been a misunderstanding," he tried. "You see, I just need to rent out your flat for the night—"

"Like hell you do." The shadow flinched and rounded on him second time, a metal bat lifting high over its head.

Alfred felt a certain reluctance (he didn't _like_ having to kill civilians who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time), but at present, his own survival concerned him more. He gritted his teeth and rushed at the poor man, tackling him around the waist. They hurled across the room, stopping only when an unexpected coffee table broke their fall—or rather, nearly broke them. The defining crack of splintered wood and shattered glass drowned out Alfred's growl of pain and stars flashed beneath his eyelids. The stranger let loose a string of curses beneath him, so he took the opportunity to clench his teeth against his own pain and reach blindly for his gun, ignoring a stab of guilt.

_One clean shot through the head. It won't hurt_.

He was utterly unprepared for a abrupt, bony knee to slam his groin and release a curdled scream from his throat. The comforting weight of the gun slipped from his hand and simple as that, their positions reversed.

_Fuck—_

The back of his head throbbed again when it met the floor with a thud.

"Don't mess with me, National," a voice hissed in his ear. It was the same voice, only much more brave, now that the gun was held captive in a different hand. From this intimate distance, the stranger's features were scarily visible, and Alfred swallowed heavily, staring into furious green eyes that were hooded beneath a pair of thick, downturned eyebrows.

"Why the hell was your door unlocked?" Alfred whined, breath made short from the weight pressing on his stomach. "Were you expecting someone? Are you part of the Russian faction—are you allied with the Russians?"

"I'm not a part of your stupid games, National. And I believe I said _I'm_ the one asking questions." Cold metal pressed hard against Alfred's temple. "Breaking and entering is a crime, you know."

Alfred let out a short, derisive laugh, but it sounded more pained and anxious than he'd hoped for. "That's a hollow threat, man. My entire _lifestyle's_ against the law, I might as well be arrested for existing."

"What are you doing in my home?"

"I'm not here to kill you."

"You took out your bloody _gun_!"

"Self defense; you've got a mean swing." Alfred cleared his throat, struggling to ignore the sting in his gut that sent a shiver rending down his spine. "Fine...I didn't _initially_ come here to kill you."

"Huh. Well in that case, forgive my inhospitality," the stranger bit out, dripping obvious sarcasm. "I suppose you're simply in the market for charming a little flat, and took a liking to mine?"

"Actually…sort of. Yeah. I was."

The man rolled his eyes, bracing the gun in his hand. "Bullshit."

"It's the truth!" Partly. "I just need somewhere to wait out the night. There was a battle—"

"Tch, the Nations' petty gang wars don't constitute a battle. It's because of people like you that the city's gone to rot."

"Please." Alfred hated hearing the weak strain in his voice (almost as much as he loathed the gang insult) but the deeper he breathed, the more lightheaded he felt. "I just needed a place to stay for the night. I thought this flat would be empty. I swear," he choked out, "I don't…I didn't want to involve any civilians. I'm an honorable soldier. I mean…I try to be."

The man was silent for a while, so silent that Alfred feared a bullet was about to lodge itself in his brain.

"You're lucky," he spoke at last. "I'm not a murderer. Not like you. If I killed you, I'd be just as wretched." With every word, the pressure of the gun lessened. "Tell me, which banner you do you fly?"

His suddenly curiosity caught Alfred off-guard. "The American," he breathed, feeling an undeniable (and very untimely) swell of pride in his chest as he admitted it. To the innocents of the city, the National banners were beacons of deplorable bloodshed, but Alfred didn't think like that; he was a separate sort of creature, and he'd learned to find assurance in the patterned stripes and the stars. There were fifty stars—he knew because he counted them often, wondering what they'd stood for.

He'd always wanted so badly to believe that he could make them stand for something once again.

"American," the civilian echoed. "There's no such thing."

_There is so_, Alfred thought, but it was useless to argue. He shook his head. "Look, I'll be out of your hair in the morning, I promise. I don't want to kill you, just let me…sit here, for a bit. It's a charming place you got here, I just need…I had to get away, because…I think…I think I might've been shot. Just a little. No big deal. Though it hurts like a bitch."

"What?" The civilian staggered away as if he'd been jolted with electricity, abandoning the handgun on the floor. Clearly, he hadn't noticed. "My God...You're right. You have been."

Was he seriously kneeling over him? Was he _Concerned_? The world was still so dark, it was hard to tell.  
Alfred felt a tug on his tender skin as the side of his bomber jacket peeled away from his body, the crust of dried blood crackling in his ears and—_pain._

"Dear lord," the civilian's voice came from some place far away.

"You're bipolar, you know that?" Alfred mumbled.

"This is bad. This is very bad, I think you're going to die."

_Thanks for the reality check_. "Maybe not."

If the man was at all terrified of having a dead body lying in his apartment, he gave no further sign of it. It was impossible to tell what he might've been feeling at all. "You're all bloody fools," he said incredulously, "fighting for a glory that doesn't exist. _Dying_ for it. They used to call this place the city of peace, but peace is a lie, isn't it? It's absolutely unobtainable, and you've proven that. You and your damned star-spangled banner. And the Russian banner, and the German, and the Italian—hell, all of them. Even this one." He pulled at something from around his neck, and before Alfred could even think to protest, he felt his hand being cradled in the civilian's, and a necklace falling gently into his palm.

The little square of metal was warm in Alfred's grasp, the chain slipping between his fingers and knotting around itself. There was something oddly comforting about it—or perhaps about the way the stranger had offered it with a soft, tentative hand. Alfred brought it mere inches from his face, squinting hard through a haze of shadows to decipher the pattern that was painted along the charm's surface.

"…The Union Jack," Alfred whispered. "I've heard of this one." A shiver coursed up his spine, prickling against the sweat on the nape of his neck. "No one flies this banner anymore."

"No," the man sighed. "My elder brother was the last. An idiot to the end. Just like you, I suppose."

Alfred closed his eyes against the consistent music of warfare that thrummed in the emptied streets below. "I'm not an idiot. I'm Alfred F. Jones. I usually tell people, 'it's not a name you're soon to forget,' because…because usually I tell it to my enemies."

"I see. I'm Arthur Kirkland," the stranger offered, sounding very tired. "It's a name most people forget, I admit."

Despite how much strength Alfred forced into his grin, it felt weak on his unsteady lips. _Well, it's so dark, maybe Arthur doesn't notice_. "I guess we're allies now, aren't we Arthur?"

"No. Normal people don't use such terms."

"Then what are we?"

Arthur shrugged, and Alfred watched his form blur at the edges before melding into the shadows along the walls of his humble little flat. He'd nearly disappeared, but his voice was firm when he said, "Aquaintances. Or something like that."


End file.
